Hellgate: Rebirth
by Ubivat Stranitsy
Summary: Set in an alternate Hellgate: London universe, a young Templar knight named Arexie Schmidt fights to survive in the post-Burn tunnels of the London Underground in the year 2038. After the great war between humanity and the demons of Hell, the remnants of the once-powerful factions settle in the Underground stations, surviving by their fear of the outside world and on supplies.


The journal of Arexie Schmidt. (Inspired by the _Hellgate: London_ video game & also includes original/derivative elements).

Disclaimer: All intellectual property rights go to HanbitSoft.

Entry #1

My name is Arexie, and I am a Templar. I am one of the many offsprings of the descendants of our forefathers. By the courteous heaven-bound wind I sprung up into existence eighteen years ago. My pale white tunnel skin and my light blonde locks show you my constitution. I prefer to suppress the inequalities, as well as harbor a fluid spectrum of guilt and overwritten thoughts. Lush green Eden awaits those that prepare the harvest, and reap the fruits of their labor. Lust will not tempt you unless you have the will to resist. The tree of knowledge's deceit is one hell of a repercussion.

A crystal ball of cabalistic foretelling had supposedly discussed my fate amongst the egologists, and it somehow balanced my blood with the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. However, the promising foresight was equalized by a less-fortunate prophecy. The visual evidence told me that I was supposedly going to be bitten by a spawn of Hell on a day ruled out by darkness in order to determine if I was resilient enough to be the master leader of humankind's last stand against evil. The ball said that would be the first of many stages. So yea, it was a bit much to digest then and there. It was in a gypsy wagon at the metro fair. I vaguely remember the mädel that produced my future vision, but I know that she was stellar. I wished to visit her residence and converse appropriately. Alas, I didn't get the chance. I am not worthy of such noble blood, for I am a sinner, and it unnerves me that auguries such as these depict me as a great hero. Still, everyone yearns for a title, and it pleases his or her immensely in a way that psychology couldn't explain.

A friar told me the latter once, and he was true, and highly satisfied as well. He chose to focus on the radiant aspects of the apocalypse—rather than the many casualties of countless knights and cabalists. Many refer to the mages as cabalists and the Templar's as quick-slaying Blademasters or heavily-armored guardians. The cabalists tend to be knowledge seekers and advantage-takers rather than blood-bound fighters. They, as well as the ex-militant Hunters, cooperate in groups and dispatch the dark hordes when necessary. I have read a piecemeal bio of a cabalist, and he went by the name of Warren Schimmer. He fought alongside fellow cabalists, hunters, and other Templars in the epic race to seal the transpiring hellgate and defeat the remaining demons eighteen years ago. He and other co-fighters breached the trans-dimensional fabric of Hell and defeated the elder-demon Sydonai. However, a sorceress died fighting whilst a valiant Templar knight was transported back to the procreational fabric by a demonic cuckold called Murmur. Those times have disappeared into the Aether. The juxtaposition of the lower depth can only be accessed through a tear, or a portal into a dissimilar world or space.

A rapture of joy erupted from my kitchen. I stood up from my stationary, and took in a great whiff of banana loaf. I swung my brown, squeaky door open and grabbed my share of the rare treat as well as a glass of tart orange juice. I'm greatly obliged to my mother, because she fought hard to keep me in her cell rather than send me to some collective station, per say. A collective station is a facility in which lost or orphaned children seek to take refuge and consume rationed provisions in order to subsist. Carter and his brother Sinclair man the stations and are supportive of the children on their quest to find inner peace from the traumatizing experiences from the Burn and the loss of everything they knew. I looked at the acid rain dripping from the stained glass window in my bedroom. A small peanut plant on the pane lay frayed and dying, the fertilizer eggs drying up. I needed to get my sword and kill something; it helped me to focus on the radiant aspects.

Entry #2

I am a hypocrite, and a liar. I am violent and peaceful. I am weak and strong. I am not a convert. Was' born into my coexisting order. Honey drips from the rods of the righteous. If you would take one explicit glance at me, you would not notice my deep inner fear for you, or my frostbitten tongue. Cut me off, so you can continue walking. Rake my eyes, so I cannot see you. Brush me off, like a promising flea caught in your leg hairs. Representing guilt or shame, the mind recognizes the exact moments when you made a mistake, or blurted in the risqué affairs of your associates—or called a superior a horsenozel. Never address horsenozel to a superior, for you shall witness ultimate wrath exceed nine thousand mad-watts.

Vigorously churning butter, a man with three wives yelled: "Honeys', which one of you should I do be with?" One answered: "Not I, for my mother would not approve." Another answered: "Not I, for my sister would greatly disapprove." The final one answered: "I would, but my father would kick your ass." The man eyed his mule. She told him: "Your other ass."

Entry #3

Enough of the crude humor, let's touch base for a moment. If you would imagine your earth engulfed in a huge pit with a little city at the bottom, how would you feel about it? Father Superior, please hear my prayer. Corn eats the mouth. Cats do not wash themselves. Dogs run by perceiving the universe as brown. Do the latter instances use depth to describe anguish? The only one who can hear us is he—he who reigns above the clouds and ozone wisps. I'm not trying to be sacrilegious, but honest. My Norse-influenced mentality is heavy with the myths and legends of old. I do cling to my religion and beliefs like a monsoon rat on a stone. My proposition is that the ruins of mankind ought to be rebuilt, but first we have to conquer an incarnate force that can drain souls and deflect RPG rockets. Asgard will not give us provisions like celestial axes or swords. The inmates feed on matter that is supernatural and elusive. They spread a layer of putrid jelly over fields of prosperous grain. They threaten our civilization to the core. We don't cower because we don't have the weapons to combat them—we have plenty of soldiers, but they fall one by one, like uprooted bots, when it comes to the last Ragnorok.

The marksmen were in my dream. They darted around my filtered image like wild stags. They brandished long rifles with advanced-zoom scopes and fully-loaded cartridges. Their night-vision goggles glowed with a faint green phosphorescence. Their exoskeleton armor was dark and subduing. Arms like willows. In spite of this, they were hardened to tough beams. They could lower their heart rate far below the standards. They pierced many bellies and ripped many skulls in their lifetimes. Once, they held a "pre-Burn" convention. All the skilled sharpshooters arranged a bet in which they could test their crossbow finesse, and their callused hands. Imph Node, a novice at the time, split three carbon arrows from a bull's-eye with a longbow. His father, Rimph, spread tales of his son's skill across the highlands. He quickly became ignored, and his son received warm regards and contracts from businessmen there and far. He then encountered a darker truth. One late night, on his sixteenth birthday, he lumbered home half drunk from a tavern celebration. He went to his room, almost reaching the sober stage, and read his mail. Many of them were merely bits and bobs, errands and tasks. He eyed a white gradient of a message sketched in blood:

_Dear Mr. Imph,_

_You seem like a pleasant young man. Not only are you loyal but smart and talented as well. You need to listen to me though. Your father's blood needs to be repaid, so why don't you take out a couple of bad babes out tomorrow at The Miller. They are not invisible but concealed under dark coats. You can bring their heads to me when you're done, it should equal your father's corpse in crimson._

_Sincerely,_

_Travis_

Imph, numb with fear, burst out of his door with a torch burning red. He couldn't decide if the message was from a commoner or a hitman. His keen eyes couldn't spot anyone from his dark hall, so he kept going. An axed-pendulum swung. It barely missed and slit Imph's shirt, almost breaking the skin. "You're going the wrong way!" A demonic voice issued out. Imph ignored the remark and kept walking forward in order to apprehend his adversary. He kept walking further and further into the levels of the hall. Dates and data became clear. Cases of ceaseless murder and theft made sense. He stopped to think. _Sand, its similar to sand_. _Gargantuan amounts of rich text reveals our situation perfectly!_ His almost overlooked his theories'. There was a ghostly spirit with flowing robes that levitated in front of him like a nymph, but it was more powerful and had glossy black eyes—like a human-sized serpent. He stared at it square in the face. It rendered a holographic ring with demonic symbols written around it that he couldn't name. It was glowing, but it suddenly vanished with the spirit's deadly scream. Imph held his ears. His walls caved in, and his entire hall fell loose with the cracking of floorboards. He stood up finally, wiping the dust off. He looked down from his thin plank that he was somehow glued on. Black space encircled his position. Nothingness. He looked up. A billion different stars were around him. Distant nebulas with vibrant colors loomed in the distance. All this glory was soon cut short. A magnifying, red face appeared before him, relaying a broad message: "The mortals do not know what's happening, and they will soon feel the fire . . ."

Entry #4

Imph came thudding back to the Earth unscathed. A smokescreen obscured his view. His village was burning. Ghostly wraiths with long scythes terrorized the townsfolk. A pale, fleshy demon came sprinting up to him with a dagger, but vanished in the honeycomb layer that shielded Imph without authorization.

"Do you see now Imph, all the colors?" a deep, cackled voice spoke out in front of him.

Imph swallowed deeply. He couldn't see who was talking, but he could tell it was coming from far away.

"You should be scared, for I AM death! I am real! I can rip your soul from your body!" His malice squelched what little air was around.

"You can't take me."

"And why not!" He loomed in stealthily from his black perch.

Imph sweated bullets. He stepped back, to refill his mind.

"I might not have the muscle or the skill to cast you away, but I certainly have the power!" Imph slung his cross with the brass chain out.

The demon's face started to swell. "Aaghh! I can't see anything!" His giant head exploded in an ashen pop. Sticky blood flooded the road. Imph scurried back to his honeycomb. A tear, he had to close the tear in order to leave the future dimension. He examined his warm room. A small fuse box with an 8-volt outlet stood next to a lever that seemed intertwined with a direct current. The description on the glass emergency box was all he needed for an immediate getaway: PULL DOWNWARDS FOR FORWARDING ACTIVATION.

He yanked the forwarding lever down. A loud bubble of electricity swirled around him. A blistering crackle, then a pop, and he was gone.

Through his roof he fell stories, until he died. An infinite loop of life sentences. A sad demise really, he would have been an excellent archer. Oh, you thought marksmen only wielded long rifles? The more you know.

Entry #5

My dreams have purged my conscience, and have locked images consisting of my school days inside it. Girls with Germanic braids and young straps with buckled loafers were there. A cobblestone street was filled with the everyday traffic of hardy salesmen and shady prospectors. I was an infant when the Burn occurred, so I was nothing more than a knave. The fiends of Niflheim had finally assaulted Midgard. Years passed after the so-called "Burn", and I had reached the age of five when the legends of the tall-tale demons finally bore through the thick, opinionated skulls of adults. My mum and dad told me it was nothing to worry about, _of course. _On the other hand, my skeptical mind knew better. I heard rumors at school that monsters were headed our way, and that we should hunker down in underground safe zones. I grew scared and worried. My muscles turned to pudding when I heard of the Great Dark. The upper class-men told us of Corruptors with slimy tentacles with suction cups that could rip a face off. They told us of zombie like beings that were eternally damned and festered on the wounds of other people. The most horrible description I heard of was that of the Grotesque. He was a mountain of conjoined, rotted bodies that he had slaughtered as well as hoarded plus maggot-ridden flesh. He was also known to have two massive arms that he used to propel his weight forward and crush whoever was in his way. I was petrified by this greater demon, so I didn't talk to any other fellow pupil from then on.

Months later, it happened. People were flying through the street, trying to decide where to go. Families were packing all they could carry and traveled briskly to the places of refuge in the eastern safe zones. I imagined the inmates of Hell were coming from the west. My muscles twisted with fear. Perhaps I was still on edge at the time. I ran to my room, and searched around hurriedly for a couple of my most valuable possessions. If you have ever left your home not knowing why, you know how extremely difficult it is to pick out your favorite blueprint or treasure chest. When you were seven or eight years of age, you knew how it was. The everlasting curiosity welled in your mind like a feeding parasite. I said a superficial _damn it_ really loud. My mum rushed in and grabbed me by the arm with a solid grip, and hauled me out of the house with my father on the horse. Just then a fiery ball of molten rock smashed the house in two, covering it with red slush. Cedar-wood ashes drifted down the sky slowly. I cried. A heavy, sulfurous odor laced the air. Tongues of crackling flame dotted the roof-line. Father whipped the reins and sped off with my mum, whilst I rode with my older brother who hauled the luggage (my sisters) on a mare short behind them. I could hear the sharp screams of the stragglers that lagged behind amongst the dark puffs of smoke. Aphoristic clouds perforated the atmosphere. The lush green field and the little dirt road were swallowed up by a malevolent wind whilst a stalker dashed close behind us. Only moments later, a bolt of electric frost struck the foaming beast in the snout and toppled it sideways. A looked up to recognize the projectile that my savior had used to dispatch the surprisingly swift predator, but all I could see was a very bright, indirect light burning like a 50-volt light bulb in a cloud that followed our pférd. I wanted to go fight the evil—I didn't want to leave my home. My favorite rural place in the world—all the memories: fishing in the moonlight, galloping towards the strong north wind on a shire, playing the mandolin for courting purposes - all were seemingly erased from me. My tears dribbled down my sallow visage. I looked behind. The beast was slain, but it left a deep gash in my arm while I wasn't watching. Or was I. It seemed like my arm was numb to its bite. It was red and stinging, as if the monster's maw was lined with bacteria as it bit down. That didn't help my mood.

The blur of events whirled in my mind with perpetual motion. One significant incident that stuck to my mind was the race to enter the packed safe zones. We entered London through a intricate road guarded by scores of Templar infantry and Hunter-engineer anti-demon charges. People were cramming themselves in with baggage and belongings that plugged the doorways full. They didn't want to die without beloved their Reader's Digests. An old lady with heavy baggings fell and couldn't get up. She stared at me with her blue, timeworn eyes. "Help me little boy, please!" She strained to lift herself up. My father told me to stay in the safe zone and never go outside on the way there, but I wasn't about to let that lady die by the black, disgusting hands of the demons. I ran through the doorway and helped her up. She was surprisingly light, as I would have imagined with my developing height and muscle, and helped her in. Wicked cries rang through the gate's entrance lot. A cacophony of unduly screams and footfalls emanated behind us. I seized the rotating door handle and pulled with all my might. The hefty casing moved but an inch. My father helped me and yanked the stone gate's closing lever just before an obese Carnagor almost ran through it. "Schnell, schnell!" he screamed. I stole a glance at the chaos as the stone gate closed. Stalkers were clawing at the Freemason walls. Fetid Hulks and Ravagers with crushing feet barreled across the lot. My father turned the multi-knobbed wheel and locked our door as tight as a cannon. We were finally at ease.

Entry #6

You like these entries, huh? I use them to pass the time. Writing helps me think about my past and present life. It helps me pass through my trials of unrelenting violence and aggression. These things are human, right? I believe every human undergoes a certain percentage of pointless strife and implausible outcomes. They all have gotten the blisters. Imph, with his trans-dimensional travel, probably would have been a knowledgeable man if it weren't for his lack in the field of portals. The gateway spawned where the wraith approximately opened it, which was sadly on the roof of his house. The wraith certainly had time bending powers, so that Imph could see the future of the village and the galaxy from abroad. But this man had been caught in an unpredictable trap.

To wrap things up, Imph was the one chosen to see the first strike. But his soul was surely carried up and away from the Sodom below. We were engineered to resist the flame and rise up from the ashes, but we always had a rough start.

Entry #7

The long, hard trek to the safe zones drug me to the earth that day. The hardening cogs of the time-frame conveyer belt jammed abruptly by the hand of Darkness. I didn't perceive the action until my father revealed it to me, _before he left for a Feralist convention to never return._ At that time I was feeding off the rationed protein bisque. Or as the status quo reminded us: "Best grub in the Tube." I was beginning to think I was going to contract a C.T.D. (a culinary transmitted disease). That skít wasn't food, it was swine-feed. The carefree revelers soaked themselves in liquidized, fermented grapes while I couldn't get a mädel to serve me what little wine or bread we had left . . . Heh, it was for naught anyway. My plight was more grueling than a Dixie's road to independence. The intense carousel was too much for me. Back in the day, gentlemen took liebe to just about anything. Fortunately for me, I got stuck with a collage of French fellows from the local winery. Hey, at least it was on the house. The sweet, welcoming scent filled the room day in and day out. It was almost like the forging of over-indulgers. Men would be shuffling bricks the next day, with no point of contact with anything. Even the idea of Armageddon didn't surprise them. It was the golden days for me, a boy, who tasted his first burning hint of wine and his first miraculous sight of a babe to last him a fortnight.

Entry #8

I'm getting less and less time to jot these entries down. My occupation as a nanosmith has been rather demanding. Forging every weapon order from the ground up has been a sweat-breaker. Master Wrought has taught me everything from scratch. The timing, the use of raw materials, and the amount of items that an upgrader needs to have—such as scrap metal, palladium, and tech components. I am presently working on a custom suit of armour, as well as a soon-to-be-crafted Holy Negotiator. Weapons and armor need to be produced if we ever have a breach. The spirits can't penetrate our walls unless they are unprotected by the secret materials and runes that were incorporated by the Freemasons. Our resources come from the ingenious alloys our Techsmiths' have created, the Cathedral's inventory, and any salvageable goods from the surface. However, these flowing gifts will soon run short. We will have to open the gate to the surface and scavenge what we can find as quickly and stealthily as we can. Of course we will be fully armed and ready for a fight, but a fight is the last thing we need on a supply hunt. The remnants of the hellish corpses still walk the streets, and a few of the airborne scouts that were born out of the Succubus will be on the lookout. Armour is our best friend in the frays. Strap on a titanium-alloy Crusader breastplate and a helmet with an electronic HUD and your ready to go. Well, you _would_ need a full suit of armor for anything out there, since we are fighting things that are seemingly invincible. Sunlight has been snuffed out from the city air, as well as the plants and animals—all life has been sucked dry. They feed on the pain and suffering of others. _They_. I would chop off as many of their heads as I could if I went with a Templar squad. Their futuristic armor glowed under polycarbonate light emitters with neon green, gold, or any colour that met their preference with the inner licht against the heavy dark aura. Our blades or guns are marked with the tallies of the lieutenants, the leaders of the packs. Vanquishing these foes amounts to how strong a knight is. That's why we keep them in our records, or our magic-infused swords. The Paladins guard the gate from inside and venture the surface uniformly in search of valuables that the friars or the priests left behind, as well as food and medicine that would be picked up by squires. Buildings are partially decimated, or still standing. Black mud mars the streets. A dark-green hue permanently stains the sky. You could disturb a horde of Blood Angels or zombies you if you aren't careful. The fire itself might open up and spawn creatures to rip you limb from limb.

Entry #9

My father comes from a long line of Feralists, which are newly-composed, aggressive knights who wear light armor in order to swarm enemy lines and give them no chance to react. They would attack immediately, slaying as many enemy combatants as possible in order for the VIP's to pass through the dangerous lands unharmed. I, feeling a strong devotion to my father's once honorable duty, want to pick up his helmet and sword to be the next and possibly only feralist in the Underground. Of course we have variety (besides my kind): the Cabalists and the Marksmen. They live in the lower zones, which house some of the more shady characters than on the upper levels. Each of our neighboring factions hasn't really been able to get along quite well, or even negotiate a compatibility pact. After the near-death scare of early 2038, most of them probably rolled up in the fetal position and rocked back and forth recursively. Some areas are even restricted for hunters or mages to access—even areas that are protected by power cores. These suppressive doings make them more cynical of whether or not they should side with us, even in these dire times. Even If I am born of high blood, or high expectations, or whatever you damn well call it, I still feel a strong connection between the witches and the sharpshooters. Some of them were in the safe zone with me on that black day. Some of them split away from their families and joined groups of their own kind. Nobody ever hears from them anymore. They used to come to the Underground stations and apply for jobs or beg for food under their heavy, hooded cloaks. Now they are completely gone, almost absent from reality. It seems unfair that we are so prejudice of them, and how much we closed them off from what little light they had. After all this isolation, they probably label us as bigots and dogmatists. I don't know how they are able to manage, but as the old saying goes, never plant seeds where they cannot grow.

Entry #10

I have been given a fair amount of time to read and write, sometimes simultaneously, but I feel appeased. I was sifting through a Polish novel from our book stash about a lone ranger who does not fight for glory or gold, but for whom he holds dear. A satisfying fourteen-word quote. Amongst a vast, rich world he seeks knowledge from every corner—for a man who knows, his money does indeed grow. However his heart did not desire riches or fame, but love and recognition from the ones he fights for. They called him the Witcher. An attractive name, but a misleading one. This name addresses him only because of his cat-like eyes and his supernatural powers. He could supposedly use ancient spells to cast away demons and fight enemies. Some people call him a devil, and others call him a saint. I call him righteous, but I'm not referring to that cartoon. Save that for the nine-year-olds.

Entry #11

Today's toil has been rough. Grime layers the ceilings, fumes from the café and the atrium still stifle the metro, and rats and other woodland creatures have managed to travel through the sewage canals and infest the café's supplies. Cleaning has shredded my hands. Anyway, our ration provider, Mr. Conan, had called out for young lads willing to slay the vermin in exchange for some café food. I'm all in when it comes to earning grub, but I made a solemn oath to return home before the midnight toll. I was currently working a three-hour, part-time shift at the _Glut_, a small Bar n' Sup in the station near the branching tunnels. The time was nine thirty, and I was serving beer and chili to wary customers at the bar. I glanced off at the "downgraded" section. I felt utterly sorry for that small family. All my problems at the time seemingly vanished. There was a mother with four children. I didn't know if they were adopted or her own, but I treated them with the utmost respect. A baby in the carriage had bloody nubs for fingernails and a blistering rash across her cheek. Her hands were tenderly wrapped in dirty bandages. The other three were pot-bellied and could not speak because their faces were too bruised and beaten. The mother had shown some signs of physical abuse but her mind seemed to be centered around her children. She was bustling around the kids, eager to serve them all and made sure no one was left out of strips from the skimpy pig. Her cheeks were stained with tears when she did this. Perhaps her husband beat her and the kids. Maybe he would stroll out in the open one day and have a fire scorpion rip off his head. I smiled wickedly at the thought. I stared at them with an endless trance. A huge, rounded waiter sent me crashing to the floor with a beer mug that was supposed to be delivered minutes ago. The mug shattered and sent nasty brew all over the wood. He stood up tall and was outraged that I was somehow in his way. He grabbed me by my collar and roared with a syrupy breath, "You damn imp! Always causing trouble?"

My blood boiled.

I pushed him away. I snatched my share of tips left over from the customers and stormed out of the restaurant feeling savage. I donated some of my money to the poor family before I ran off. The mother smiled with jubilant tears and the kids waved at me as I sprinted down the long subway whilst dodging commoners. I guess my defiance and inner grit took over me that day. I felt surpassed by none.

Entry #12

My onslaught of agenda notifications have somewhat grinded to a halt. My writing has been completed, as so by Master Rüs. Rüs is a retired professor who has volunteered to teach willing students the essential principles of English and German, as well as many other languages. We write constantly, via tablet or typewriter. By a matter of fact the typewriter is what I am using to compose this journal, as well as to string it together to make it at least resemble a book. The paper isn't exactly first class. We are writing about the many experiences we had and the world around us. The misadventures, the futile girl consulting, and the invincible three sagas have all been my favorites. The invincible three sagas were about the feuds between Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon over men who were worthy enough for the beautiful Aphrodite. SPOILER ALERT: Aries was impaled by Poseidon's trident. Currently I am working on my thesis about how Simon Cross and his other friends slowed the progress of the assaulting denizens and sealed the forming hellgate. The latter requires mankind to be complacent with their defenses so that it can open without question. The Underground was subsequently infested with the enmity of escaped beasts and filth. Simon, being the only warrior in the group, had to fight his way hand-to-hand through dozens of those bastards in order to reach ground zero. Cerberus, the Sphinx, the bull Taurus, gorgons, and demons all swarmed the shadows. After a tough scrap he made it to the gate and doused the scorching glaze with holy water—the only substance that would extinguish the flames, via a pressure washer. The deed was finally done, and Simon left the Underground and collapsed on the surface with a bubbling tank on his back and a leaky hose draining sweet liquid over the concrete.

Entry #13

I found an interesting novel in our book stash that was relative to mankind's current situation. It was fictitious story set in the year 2033 about the metro in Moscow that held a large amount of civilians, rangers, Reich agents, monsters, and bandits. A warhead punched a deep crater and threw clouds of radiation into the city, making it impossible to breath unless you had a gas mask. The remaining populists had flown into the metro, which was still revolting but better than the surface. Years passed and civilization within the metro still drove on, but struggled to cope with the lack of supplies and ammunition. Guns were essential in the metro—you could never predict what could snag someone from abroad.

Entry #14

My hand turned flaccid this morning from smelting. The hot air from the fire was suffocating, so I lifted the window up and took in great huffs of the thick tube air. I took the time to roll up my sleeve to find the source of my itching. The scar had somehow developed into a red, festering cut that tapered off at my elbow. It was deeper then I remembered. I had never thought it would become infected after I had cleaned it and injected an antibiotic solution into my bloodstream. Then it hit me, the stalker's bite was not all accidental. The crystal ball foresaw the incident accurately. In a transverse wave, I gently fell into a negate field where motion was compromised and time was frozen. I moved, but my surroundings didn't. I was in a separate plane of existence. One that housed the supernatural and the abominable. A swift current of wind swished through the tunnel highway and vanished from my eyesight. The thick air grew hot and was smothering me like a plastic bag. My nanoforge shook and the grav lifts deactivated. The air grew thick with humidity. My inflamed scar was bleeding with a piquant fluid that burned my skin and ran down my arm. I felt squeamish and half-heartedly searched the room in a frantic state for clean water and peroxide. The pain grew worse by the second. A telltale, raspy voice was somehow trying to communicate with me via a crackly, well-hidden speakerphone. I couldn't decipher much of its speech, but only one line of presumable classified information was enunciated to me with some distinction: "We are coming." I waved my hands adjacent to my head, hoping to waft the inverted wave of sound as close to my ears as possible. The amorphous wind grew swift and icy, like a winter front. The first and foremost stage. I remembered. There was one mark to be placed upon a chosen warrior in order to signify the factual leader of the Templars and/or the remaining factions that warred against Hell and her demons. Her forces were not asocial, but _absent _from the human plane. They had merely been surveying our existence and gathering information about our plans and whereabouts. They had been reading our gazette this entire time. The wind diverted from its path and flowed through my window, into my body, and through my hair. Flecks of ice struck against my nano-smith vest, as well as my boots. Dividends of lesser obstructions were thrown against me. Ice covered the pavement like a layer of vanilla frosting and froze over Master Wrought's shop. The wooden planks and rafters crackled and were chilled with a familiar frostbitten spell. I read a snippet of background info from a book about the spell. An angel was evidently devising a plan in which he would freeze my vicinity as well as all other traces of evil in order to relay something from Heaven's post. A sweet, tender voice spoke to me with in an informative tone: "Here, heed this codex: The flow of milk and honey will free the agony." The source of the speech seemed near, but far. His memo was relayed. A hot, distorted human figure standing by the road launched himself through the metro ceiling at light-speed. He left behind a silver chalice were he formerly stood. Every article and material in my vicinity surged with the force of the transformation back to the human-plane form. My entire body felt cold and my head felt heavy. I let go of my bleeding arm. A vibration shook the shop and I until it climaxed with a homeward feeling. Human shapes filled the roads and sunlight wavered in the gray sky. Things assumed regular motion once again. I rummaged through the shop's stock items and barrels in order to find any honey jars or cartons of milk. I luckily found a full carton and an ancient honey jar that looked Egyptian. Honey's hidden perk is that it never spoils—so yea; you could say I was a grateful Willy-Pete. I opened the door of the shop eagerly and was drawn to the electrifying item that was placed on the roadside. I plunged through crowds of busy commoners and mixed my ingredients with the chalice's pre-made contents. I took my first taste to hinder the ire of the reopened scar. My body felt weightless and gravity seemed nonexistent. The feeling of being hydrated and healed by an immortal drink was satisfying to the umpteenth power.

Entry #15

I had finally finished project alpha. My traditional armour plethora was finally crafted into a beautiful pièce de résistance. I forged a solid, green oriented breastplate, a cuisse, some greaves, and a silver Templar helm. I shined it up with some oil and it was right as rain. I was looking forward to that day in which I would tag along with Templar section. I had waited long enough to be dubbed. I scarfed down a grain cake and ran to the chapel that held gathering family members whilst my armor clanked around my shoulders. I stood kneeling before my creator and started a silent, curt prayer—but it was long enough to be fit for a recommended session. I finished, and waited for the vicar and friars to ascend from their deep prayer sleep and announce my worthiness into knighthood. My squire days were finally going to end. For some odd reason I didn't rethink the past. I was too caught up in the present. The speech from the vicar ended, and I waited patiently for a turn of events in the stifling room. With a bountiful blessing I rose up from the dubbing to proclaim my knighthood. The grey-haired pastor instructed me to utter a solemn oath that bade me to protect and preserve mankind from evil. He told me to recite the traditional Templar prayer as a penance. I finished, and a wave of applause broke the awkward silence. I accepted a few generous gifts from grandparents and parents likewise, and then informed them of my scheduled supply hunt. They told me to be very careful and wise, for it is truly hazardous on ground level. I gave them my sign of acknowledgement and belted down the sidewalk, eager for a taste of the surface.

My sheath dangled at my hip. My daggers were sharpened and my helmet was strapped on. The commander, who was a huge, fully-armored Blade-master, led the way to the access-granted gate. He gave a readying gesture, and the station keeper pulled the lever up. The steel gate opened gradually. Its heavy stone blocks scraped and slid against each other. The low gap by the concrete stairway was growing wider. A gust of frigid wind struck me. I tightened my helmet and adjusted my breastplate. The commander held back the eager knights. He stomped up to the surface, scanning the structures and the foggy roads. He lifted a powerful fist and drove it forth. Our group followed. Echoes and muffled sounds laced the fog. The gate closed with a thundering snap. I held my breath. I needed to cut away the inequities.

Entry #16

The much-needed vocal interaction began. The men discussed their lives openly and casually. I would have not imagined their resolve to be this strong amongst the waiting dark.

"This place hasn't had any light in ages," the commander said.

The group nodded.

"The scathed have been here long enough," a knight said. "Good Christ, this is filthy!"

He flipped the visor on his helm down. The rest of the group did the same. I felt like a walking tin man—albeit the air filter lessened the strife.

Bleeding rain seeped down from the apartment roofs and dripped on the pavement. Hollow homes were abandoned but they felt like they were still alive. A dark presence was there, but I could not see it nor hear it. It gave me a thrust of tension. The presence converted itself into an omnidirectional envelope that encompassed my surroundings. The knights carried on, unaware of my perturbed state whilst studying their compact maps and following the fearless commander to the designated supply destination. I stopped suddenly and stared through a long sliver of an alleyway. My predictions and assumptions all led up to what was waiting there, at the farthest end. It had a power that drew me to it, for an unknown reason. An elongated time stretch was eminent in its own essence. I was scared, but fascinated at what could be there. I wanted to reach my hand out . . .

"Boy, get back here!" The commander barked.

I jumped, and ran back to the section that was a good twenty yards away from my position. The gurgling gutters took their toll. It was enough to drive you mad. Espionage crows flew from the statue heads. Nearby bodies that sat on the road were semi-decomposed and stunk like skít. My nostrils were burning. Our entire section surely felt the singe.

We quickly booted out of there and onto an open road. The commander slowly unsheathed his roguish, double-edged blade. Yggdrasil, the tree of life, was welded down the middle. I imagined that his blade was infused with the Aura of Renewal. He snooped down the byway at his own pace. Aggressive air filled our lungs. Something made us suddenly more irritable. _Something_. An echoing chant ensued. I was taught a method by the books to hold your ears and focus on positive thoughts and feelings, if you had any. Eddying dust swished. An autonomous whisper nagged at my internal audio drum. The flesh I bore that corrupted the mind and tricked my neurons into false spazes of radioactive fury twitched. _Kommen Sie Mit_, they said. They knew my native language almost fluently. I was drawn again by another spectral voice.

"Don't listen to them, they are trying to deceive you," the bristly guardian warned. He spat on the road. The spittle sizzled and evaporated into a hot mist. The road had a slight warm feeling. I started walking faster and faster until my armour clanked loudly and the sound resonated deeply. A knight drove his palm and halted my ongoing impulsive escapade in its tracks.

"Stop boy, this is a hot zone. If you so much make a clink I will personally hang you off a tree and let the scouts eat you alive."

He pushed me back and continued with the mission. I felt utterly ashamed. This is my first time dealing with illusive chants so leave me alone, I thought. I walked onward, hoping that they would forget the incident and erhalten die verdammt vorräte. As a schoolboy would say, I desperately wanted to shut up and bail.

Entry #17

The vandalistic boldness of the laid-waste city was unbearable. I mean—did they really have to have so many suggestive ads and billboards stringing the place like party streamers? In a survey once, two men walked up to random city dwellers and asked them of their opinion of the age's advertising setup. I know that the Anti Werbung Regime started a petition for placing a ban on heavy municipal advertising and propaganda. But that was in a magazine from 2015. If our part of the earth had persisted to this day, multimedia would have grown tired of restrictions. I looked inside the abandoned shack, only to see a hot mess of broken glass and DVD's. The stimulation isn't high anymore, at least in the Underground. Sickness and food slumps get rid of most of what is enticing, even if there isn't anything that seems to have magnetic force. Frankly, my religion prohibits the display or consumption of iniquitous materials. We don't have TV's, or adapters that magically play virtual videos or games from a compact disc. I know a scientist brought an old CPU once but it crashed and well, broke. It was a white tower of cables and outdated software. Guaran-T Enterprises had a reputation for being the biggest nerd force around. They could have stripped it down and built it up again with Intel-Core processors and data drives. However, they're dead. Like almost every form of entertainment around. We have to keep looking for other collaborative primates, but the chemistry doesn't always mix. It could explode in your face, or bubble and fizz warmly like tomato soup.

Entry #18

Zinger, I felt aroused. Bling, ha, the fathoms of self-enjoyment. Glistening Glenda, the only doll that performs fellatio at a modest price. You hündinnens, get a real girl. A blanched stalk of meat would not suffice, but a healthy, gorgeous, stellar mädel. The cheeky vibes have kicked in again. The store was a sight to behold. Lustful spectres gleamed in the absence of the stimulants. Too tempting, I would say. They are brainless, wandering, plastic automatons with no purpose but to intervene with the affairs of mortals. They make good liebe buddies, but nothing else. A sealed bond would be uncalled for with these walking paradoxes.

Entry #19

The base feed of our expedition went quite well. Three quarters to an hour and we spent it on slashing prices. We scuttled well-hidden cereals and slipped them in our bags, as well as wine, preserved meats, canned goods, and green mints. The emerald hard candies smelled fresh and gave off an aroma that seeped into the polluted air. The knights seemed to be satisfied with their newfound goods from the supermarket's spectra-proof safe and ordered me to head back to base with them. They didn't want to leave a young shrimp out for the hell-hounds.

Entry #20

The hardening wheels of the ever-toiling titan turned continuously. He analyzed his surroundings and his values like the overlord of a chateau who accepts nothing more than neutrality. His huge blade and swift adze were strapped neatly under his ironed cloak. His hooded face was dark and burly, and had not been shaved for quite a while. His arms were like tree branches and his boots were large enough to pack a calf in. His breath was deep and gruff, like an ox that was tiring from a load. He build was that of a bitter, hulking curator who would give his life to save a helpless child. A large, heater shield was slung across his back with a defined red cross. When we rummaged through supplies and traveled back to the guiding road, he was always humming a familiar tune. It was like the chant I heard earlier, but it was more ancient and powerful. He seemed to be fond of the arts. Music, storytelling, etc. I knew _that_ much. I always knew that guardians were more than just wild, bloodthirsty men. When we were nearing the master road, he stopped us abruptly.

"I sense something," he said solemnly.

We halted and stopped clanking the bags of goods. A distant screech froze our blood. I knew something would catch onto us. I drew my sword.

"Arm yourselves mates, they are coming."

He withdrew his giant broadsword.

My comrades drew swords and akimbo-shockwave pistols. We stood back-to-back and waited for the horde. Our baggings laid vulnerable to the shadows. I felt like they were coming from all directions. A seething rage boiled inside. The previous chant ensued. The veins in my arms rippled. My eyes would always turn an icy blue when I would get angry. I found that out in the bathroom mirror after a gang of scrubs kicked me to the curb at the academy. I also avoided self-appointed narcissism. I thought of my heritage. My father. Wait, I am a Feralist—_this is what I was born to do._

A pack of Blood Angels soared in from the rooftops. They roared with a savage echo trailing off in their midst. Our gunmen took aim and peppered them with stun rounds. A few fell to the ground but a pack is a pack. There were bound to be more. A duo swooped down to snag me but I slashed off their wings and they collided into a building. Our guardian swung his broadsword and a scout lost his scaly head. They were ugly creatures, like the lot of their kind, but they were like the flagships. They had fiery-red skin that felt hard and dagger-like teeth. Their talons were hooked and strong enough to lift a grown man off the ground. They had long, sharp-tipped wings in which they would flail around like whips. Their odors were that of charred flesh.

We cut down each one as it swooped down vainly for an attempt to slash. My hands grew sore from the swinging, and my sweaty palms could not grip the smooth handle. A scout thudded into my side with a swift rush of wind. I flew backwards with a nightmarish spin and struck a hard surface with my back. My senses were knocked out as well as my ability to move. I could only sit there ardently and hope to be saved by my valiant comrades who seemed to be swarmed at the time. The air was suddenly hushed. With a deafening howl the last scout was slewn. At least I _thought_ it was. All of the bleeding scouts appeared to be confirmed kills, but there were nine that swarmed us and eight that participated in the ambush. One of them had to have fled back to base. Our hearts dropped. Our gunmen dropped their high-powered handguns and stared at the road with shame. Our commander pried his ax out of a scout's filleted belly. His muscular arms looked devoid of strength. His face was beaded with sweat. His long, dark hair flushed out of his hood. His hazel eyes looked faintly illuminated—and not totally dead. His bloody broadsword dripped the splattered remains of sinew and flesh. He said only one line that effectively promoted preparation: "Get ready for round two."

Entry #21

My headache worsened and my muscles ached. The splattered blood of the scouts stained my armour and my heart. The ligaments in my arms were undoubtedly busted. The scout charged me with blunt force and I wasn't ready. Its powerful wings propelled its weight forth and struck me with an instant body slam. I flew ten feet backwards and struck the bole of a roadside birch tree. You can utilize the context clues in order to figure out why my head was aching. If I were to imagine what it would be like to fight one hundred of those filths on top of a thousand demons and damned—I would probably call it a century and hit the road to Timbuktu. Our simple quest for provisions had resulted in an aversion towards the clientele of Hell—which was probably a bad thing considering the human race has already fought a war consisting of themselves and the damned. And if the scout made it back, it could only alert the heavier troops into the scene—the big guns were a comin'.

When I returned to my cell residence I hesitated to relay the unfortunate message to my mother, who was probably stressed- out because of the poll tax and her unfinished job application—as well as chores that were assigned to me but she had undoubtedly did them anyway to save me home-bound trouble. For she knew I would feel cooked by the time I got home.

As I walked up to the door with an eye slit, I thought about my life for a moment. The salt from her abhorrent manager had already burned her wound, but carts of it were going to be poured on it in an instant. I rapped on the door, and waited as nearing footsteps clicked on the hollow wood. She swung the door open, and loads of crap and papers were instantly dropped. She looked flustered, angry, confused, and with a combination of other unpleasant adjectives.

"Boy, you look like skít. What happened to you?"

I shrugged and stepped inside, past my mother.

She slammed the door and pulled out a stool from the conversial. Our table was low-built, so she had to lay bricks under the legs for added elevation.

"Sit down," she said with a sudden calm.

I ditched my equipment and hurled myself into a memory foam recliner that my grandmother cheaply won at an auction. I sat upright and stared at the patterns on the polished wood to avoid my mother's deadly gaze.

"I am waiting for an answer," she said.

"The answer is contradictory."

She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It is bizarre, degenerative, and fruitless. My journey today consisted of two things: supplies and ugly dinosaurs. Little brother would be pleased to hear of them."

She sat there, poker-faced. I halted my neurotic flow to mentally denote that I had not brought any tales of interest to my sisters.

"Well, are you ok?" she demanded.

"Yes, some scratches and bruises, to say the least."

She crossed her arms. "To say the least? Really? I know you remember enough to tell me the entire tale!"

I eyed her manicured nails and looked down with apprehension. I then slowly but thoroughly spun the wild yarn. She stared at me intently as I spoke, hoping to mentally snatch an incident and turn it against me in order to say: Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong! Or: Resist temptation! It's the Devil's work, ya know. I untwined the yarn until the last few words were spoken that described my descent back into the Underground. She stood there for a couple of minutes, ignoring her tea water in the singing kettle that boiled and emitted steam on the wood stove. I felt it was safe to depart from the discussion.

"Mother, I am spent." I rose from the chair with a blatant air of fatigue to enlist myself in my bed.

I was almost halfway to my room until she grew agitated and seized my arm with the same solid grip she used when she dragged me out of the old house before the Hell-projected meteorite hit.

"Arexie, what happened?" She began to tear up.

I looked at her burning chloride tears and felt remorse.

"Mother, the scouts have alerted the beasts of Hell. We slew many, but one escaped. By fate and fortune, the beast has already reached the former Hellgate."

Entry #22

You know how rumors spread, right? Someone snaps a shot at your pleasing-of-the-mädel and there it is, your plasticity film is all but an illusion. You are bare flesh, and everyone knows it. Your pleasurable dream and your proposition for humble courting has been frowned upon and spoken of harshly. You're indirect line of fire has been broken by the self-centered remarks of the diehard derogatory gremlins. Even blades of grass or wishful gusts of soft wind do not spare you. You want to have nothing to do with the universe and its parcels of predicaments or offerings. You want to be isolated and remembered as nothing more than the fertile tree that bore no fruit.

Entry #23

She was a humble, gracious, generous, and sharp-witted girl. Despite her background of razing, hazing, heaters, hoofers, and hitters, she still kept strong and pushed on with her rugged potential. She witlessly gave her remorse and handiwork to whoever would welcome or claim it. She did not have a perverted mindset or vile outlook at anatomy, but she did secretly observe the imperfections and the subtle insurrections of mankind from a lofty viewpoint by her window side. Or should I say, lofty _Internet _point. I, with my carbon fiber gloves and denim jeans, would lope around the adorned walls at night when hellions weren't a threat with a sack filled with the necessities for a future bride sitting under a bright neutron star: indigo perfume, a twenty-inch LCD monitor for watching a lot of (ahem) reality shows, a Tripp Lite power strip, rock candy from the _Southern Cent_ country store, and a microfiber silk gown made to withstand tearing. The flowing gifts from the neighborly garage sales ran short that time, but she was satisfied, unlike other _rejects._

The bane of my existence was indeed a twisted growth of vines that wrapped their limbs around the mansion's dimensional wall. She sent a fluttering rose petal down from her covered loft. The scent was sweet and undying. I forgot to check her garage that she revealed the keys for as well as a harbored ladder and hurled myself onto the sheer wall-face. My burning palms from seizing the vines did not so much as slightly inhibit my outgoing mission of blunt regard for her beauty. All of the prior fabrications and forlorn fallacies that were placed upon me seemed to dissipate as I ascended higher and higher. I was subject to clear the wall face in less than thirty seconds. A new record for me, a well-known chair potato at the time. I finally cleared the wall and hopped in her lavish bedroom. Persian rugs with curly-red motifs draped the floors as well as white, transparent sheets that covered her dome-shaped bedchamber so that her seductive body would not be seen. A strong perfume of chamomile tea hung in the bedroom air. Her chrome-plated laptop sat on her coffee table, the screensaver swirling with odd colors. A beeswax candle burned indefinitely. I slung my bag of provisions that had little sentimental value down and made my way towards her secret chamber that was illuminated by the pale blue moonlight. I outstretched my hand to pull her barriers away and reveal her to me. I threw the sheets to the side and _**WHAM**_—she hit me with her stunning beauty. A slender frame but built to last, with a rosy face that reminded me of a pretty doll I saw at a store. She seamlessly fit the role of the fair maiden that resided in the comfort and sanctity of a renovated mansion that was guarded by an advanced twelve-angle security feed. Her blonde hair and cross-color green and blue eyes gave her the gift of beauty as well as novelty. Her gown was silk and flowing, with flowing tails that swished through the old stone air. Her indescribable air of timeless fragility sifted through every pore in my skin. I knew for a fact that every teen harbored a peeve of some sort—whether it be mental or anatomic—but she beheld none that I could see. She was indeed blessed with an image that pleased the average citizen. Her figure was often deceptive, but innocent in all honesty.

I kicked off the ol' loafers and assumed my position in her imported beanbag. I couldn't say the bag _blocked_ that night, but it surely didn't stop any integers on the clock from increasing. We didn't attempt anything considered high-risk—well, for the most part. If you consider cooperatively discussing the top novels on iBook and future EDM artists frisky, let me give you an update: Nope. Nada. Negative. Our displacement amongst the "actual society" is considered inappropriate for youngsters our age—according to her renowned father. I object, since our displacement separates us from mainstream materials and idols. But I don't consider them idols; I refer to them chiefly as mere baboons. We conversed and gazed into each others' watery eyes, for the cold, night air pierced our optical membranes. She did not have a stingy, reclusive viewpoint like the commoners' had—who in fact never had grabs for something worthwhile—but rather a whimsical, caring etiquette. It was as if she had adopted the studious "key and scroll" custom.

After a while, I asked her to show me the "magic trick" that she had performed at the academy. She took my question with a mellow precautionary glance.

"Arexie, you sure?"

"Yes, darling." She took my English charm attempt serenely.

She untied the loops on her gown and let it flow down to the stone tile. She inhaled deeply, and started singing. Her pure vocals filled the room with notes that lifted the dust off the walls. She swirled her hands with an uplifting force. When her singing climaxed, a blue orb sifted through her fingers and into the air. As swift as a lark, she transposed the orb and up-scaled its circumference by two folds, and then grounded it with a firm spell. It's electric energy crackled and sent sparks jetting out from all of its sides. I approached it with caution, obviously astonished by her hidden power, and her openness to tap it fully. She tilted her gentle head down, and cut off the surge of energy that channeled through her slender fingers. She looked obviously drained whilst giving me a look of fulfillment.

"Look, lover boy, I did it."

I nodded with admiration.

"You look sexy when you do that."

She blushed.

"I do my best."

For the remainder of the evening, we talked, and I found out who she really was.

"So, Isabelle, how do you want to go out tonight?"

She knew my taste. "With a bang."

She summoned a sender portal and beckoned me to enter it. With a heavy heart, I entered the crackling thing. A few shocks zapped me here and there, but my inward-bound hop into a high-speed transportation device was intriguing nonetheless.

She blew me a surreal kiss as she launched me back to a portal receiver that she had mentally placed in my backyard. If you're wondering, that was not the first time I had tested the teleporter for her—we had done it before eons ago but I didn't want to enter it again because I had grown rather tired of the daily grind and just wanted unwind with her whilst she would spawn puppies and all sorts of good-natured beasts for therapeutic-like pleasure. I dare to put labels, but she was indeed a _Summoner_—of pleasant things.

Entry #24

I have often asked myself: How do I ingest the world and all it has to offer with the utmost efficiency and relish? Do I consume all of my environment as well as the entire physical and political world? The base is simple, but the process of elevation is complexity itself. A large chicken to-go please, but don't add salt or pepper. It complicates the darn thing. I don't like _"complications."_

Entry #25

Right now I play the waiting game. Waiting for the unknown. Regardless of whether it is detrimental or not, I still adhere a jolly postponement. _Sometimes_. My mom is waiting also, but for something more promising—a supportive occupation, mayhap.

The grandfather clock in the conversial ticks aimlessly. The seamless drops of hydrogen-rich water from the ill-plumbed kitchen sink drip with recurring _pssh_ sounds. I hunker down at the hearth, not reading a boundless book, but gazing inadvertently at the tongues of flame swishing about as the proportions of their fuel varied their volume and regularity. I thought about her. She was not like her kind. She bore none of the traits that separate a faction from another faction: dress, style, weapon choice, beliefs, and most importantly, sex. The "witches of good-nature" is the inside norm for the Cabalists, and "ex-military operatives" is the abbreviated description for the Hunters. Templars are mostly referred to as: "The zealots", because of our straight-laced rules.

What is beside the point, no one knows. Our deft ears never hear; our dry lips never feel. We wallow in sorrowful ruin and for what purpose? Fear. Amnesty. Acceptance.

Entry #26

Fine lines divide the sides. But the truth in outspoken lies and the good in unmistakably bad all coincide. Fishy philosophy is at its finest. The very air we breathe is unfavorable—so what choice do we have? My state of being held back does not help my current curriculum. I can only imagine of what happened to Isabelle and her family. It's been years, possibly a full decade since I've seen her fair skin. It'll only be a matter of time before the storm hits, but this time, mankind will be ready.

Entry #27

We rush off to the armory, café, sodden apartments, and the superiors' resting grounds. A sudden bolt of vigor has inducted me into this spiraling cone of preparatory preliminaries. My peer-to-peer network has been instilled with the vengeance of pushing back the dark as it was handed to us a saros ago. This sudden turn of the tide has opened me up to my real-time tunnel world, and has also placed a large burden upon my back. A constant wave of armament orders are thrown at me as well as requisitions for female flexi-kev suits. It's kind of uncomfortable for me to design a traditional palladium suit that tailors to curves and other enlarged body parts. Next thing you know I'll be making high-tech, elastic johnnys. As soon as this war is over, I'm heading to the Canary's for a permanent sojourn.

Entry #28

I was indeed surprised today at the nanoforge. Amid all of the chaos, a short, fair-skinned mädel stood steadfast in the single file as she waited to place an order. When the limited light from the tunnel lanterns began to vanish from the deteriorating view of our eyes, she finally stepped in front in order to request. She was wearing the trademark hooded cloak, but something told me she was not just another one from the farther ends. I grew entranced by her presence, as if she had broke the threshold that regulated my mind. I dropped the signature pen, and all of my problems seemingly dissolved. She finally revealed her face by dropping the gimmick cover-up. She zapped my time-frame. Her dark hair was curled with gold cylinders holding the slack and her her torso was fitted with a tan blouse. She was equipped with leather leg guards and boots, as well as a tanned fabric skirt and shoulder pads. Her deep brown eyes were fixated into my mine. She relieved the spell and closed in on me for a personal talk.

I gawked. "Isabelle, is that really you?"

Her frame was still slender but more matured. A small swirl of blue conjuration floated in her palm.

"Yes Arexie, I'm still kickin. And I need to talk to you, like, right now."

She spawned a docile, broad-haired boar at my feet. She seized me by the wrist without hesitation and we rode the carriage-sized beast far out into the open tunnel.

Entry #29

As we neared the station lobby, I felt as if her back was slightly brushing against my chest intermittently. The wind blew my hair as well as hers. We rode a great distance and spent what seemed like a century galloping on the beefy steed. If you could even call it a steed. We finally halted at the entrance, and dismounted hastily. She led me through the doorless passage to a hazy, dust-laden storeroom where little light could enter. As we mazed through the short halls with empty shelves lining their sides, I felt a sharp buzz in my right ear because of sound inadequacy. It soon amassed both. I almost lost her soft touch when she leapt for something that was forward. I ran after her, like an owner after his dog when it breaks from a tether. I finally caught up and she gestured towards the circular, stained-glass window that glistened with brilliant light as it passed through. A wooden stool sat near it on the floor with a composition tablet placed upon its seat. I attempted to assume and examine it, but she snatched it before my eyes with fibre optic speed.

"Come on Isabelle! Just let me look at it for a moment!"

She made that persuasive face again. "Arexie, I . . . I can't."

"Sure you can! O sweetest flower in Flanders Fields! O most skipped but most beautiful! You can surely share it with me of all people!"

She looked flattered as well as convinced. As soon as her hand motioned to release the book, I stifled a grin. All her secrets, suppressed fears, powers, fantasies, crushes, and most-importantly: knowledge of the outside world through the eyes of multiple hosts was undoubtedly there and present. (_Not like I gave you enough details)_. I took it from her hand and skimmed through most of the content until I reached the page of no return. It was a summoning procedure, complete with pictorials of different retrievable beasts - both tame and untame. She made a blind mistake even considering giving it to me.

"Arexie, stop!" Her hand shot out to seize the tablet.

I complied to her confiscation."You shouldn't have let me take it."

"I thought I could trust you!"

"You didn't specify what I could or couldn't do, sadly."

She cursed under her breath.

"Look, all I wanted was to gain a little knowledge from the outside, you know, some tactical insight."

She balanced on that remark."Sounds reasonable, but you should've been more respectful of _my_ property."

I spaced back into reality, and out of knowledge land. "We're in love! We have to share everything! Or else, this relationship is kaput."

She looked as if she were about to burst.

"Arexie, this is what I've been trying to get us to talk about. Like, someplace secret. Cause we haven't discussed things in God knows how long."

She was right. We needed to talk. And very inconspicuously. I decided to sweep her of her feet and amble towards the stool. I set her down and dragged an old wire wick chair to the side. I sat. And we stared for a long time.

Her hands were positioned as if they had invisible fetters binding them. Her mother-of-pearl bracelet matched the glow of the soft moon. We finally got back to business after a fife and a fiddle.

"So how are we going to keep them at bay?" She asked.

"It would seem customary that I would be the one asking questions," I said.

She looked bemused. "What, you think you're just the foolish boy and I'm the smart girl?"

I chuckled. "No, its that I always wanted to learn more, and would never be the one to give advice."

She panned to the right, gazing through the transparency of the unclear glass. The moon's aura wasn't as powerful as it once was but it still managed to bore through the thick, dense fog that blurred the lines of the current sky.

"You've been gone, like, gone a lot," I reminded.

She caressed my arm, like it was even manly enough to _be_ caressed.

"I know, its been rough down there. I haven't been able to leave, its allegedly forbidden."

I settled on that thought for a while. And all the dots almost magically interconnected. The shunning of the inferior archetypes didn't give them a very warm welcome. More so, they _did not _take the Templars as a very cooperative lever. They envisioned that it was more of a stiff, rusty pipe-end that had been weathering for decades in an abandoned warehouse. They had boiled down to one conclusion and one conclusion only: _If that's how they wanna play, fine. Let's see how they fare on their own._

Entry #30

You could say that I got home in a whirl. The tables weren't turned on me this time. Every blue moon or so my mother doesn't question my entrance into our residence at increasingly late hours, but in this scenario that just wasn't the case.


End file.
